One Mood's Expression

See, Lord, fanatics all arrayed For revolution! To foil their villainous crusade Unsheathe again the sacred blade Of persecution. What though through long disuse 't is grown A trifle rusty? 'Gainst modern heresy, whose bone Is rotten, and the flesh fly-blown, It still is trusty. Of sterner stuff thine ancient foes, Unapprehensive, Sprang forth to meet thy biting blows; Our zealots chiefly to the nose Assume the offensive. Then wield the blade their necks to hack, Nor ever spare one. Thy crowns of martyrdom unpack, But see that every martyr lack The head to wear one.